


From His Slab Began to Rise

by cftcft9090



Series: *Ludacris Voice* What's Your Urban Fantasy! [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Period-Typical Racism, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29477907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cftcft9090/pseuds/cftcft9090
Summary: Jon is sleeping, Martin is dealing with a ghost, Tim is trying to hold it all together, oh thank GOD there is a happy ending to all this.
Relationships: A little Jon/Oliver as a treat ;), Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: *Ludacris Voice* What's Your Urban Fantasy! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119986
Kudos: 27





	From His Slab Began to Rise

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I am an American, so please excuse my attempt at British english modern or archaic.

Before him loomed the Magnus Institute, built of rich red brick and lined with arches and columns. The double doors were closed in front of him, the green stained glass adorned with an owl (or what he assumed was an owl, he’d only read of them in books) in intricately folded wrought iron. If Jon were a braver man, he would’ve stormed the place without even paying the door any mind. But, no, instead he stared down this wrought iron owl, hand cupped around the doorknob as if he were actually going to open the thing and enter.

In that moment he weighed his options. He could turn and leave, never return, be resigned to a life of not knowing even the slightest bit more information about his... condition, and just pretend that nothing even happened and go on as he had been. Or, he could enter. He’d heard rumors about packed stacks lined in books all about the unnatural, the supernatural. Staff that knew about all the evils that lurked in the shadows while you slept. Indubitably, there had to be something or somewhere here that had answers. He could enter and know the truth.

Or he could just leave and not face the embarrassment of being chased out of a place he didn’t belong. But he’d had his fair share of that more times than he could count; what was one more confrontation?

So he decided to enter, though he also decided to enter with as little fanfare as possible. Just to be safe. He was not immediately greeted by the grand library of his dreams, but found himself in a simple lobby with several more doors. The large one obviously led to the library, so he steeled himself open a door once again.

Finally, he was exposed to the stacks. There were many shelves, not as many as a normal library by any means, lined with tomes with crisp spines, all properly cared for. He allowed himself to drag a hand across a nearby shelf, pleased to find not a hint of dust. By the assortment of titles, he seemed to be in a Greek mythology section, appropriate considering the content they must be working with here may be influenced by cultural perspectives. Not to say he’d ever met a Greek, but they did have quite a mythos behind them.

As he’s silently browsing the stacks, he did gain the attention of a few attendants lingering around. His stocking itch where they were tied tight around his knees; he should’ve powdered more, they always got itchy when he was nervous.

Werecreatures. The vampyre. Undead evils. Shelf by shelf, Jon felt like he was getting further and further from what he needed to find. All these stories were just that, stories. If this Magnus fellow wanted to accumulate folklore, that was his prerogative, but Jon needed  _ fact _ . He started muttering to himself, a bad habit, and it set two women nearby into a frenzy of gossip. That was fine, expected even. As long as they left him to his search, they could laugh all they wanted.

“Excuse me, boy.” Jolted him out of his concentration. He turned to see an older woman standing before him, arms crossed and mouth turned down in a frown. Her brows pressed together in a way that told him she wasn’t into any funny business. “We prohibit children from these premises.”

Most notably, she wore trousers. Jon cleared his throat, “Madame...” Why was she wearing trousers? “I am no mere lad. I am full grown, assuredly.” It took effort not to stare; he was oh so curious to her reasoning for forgoing a skirt or dress. 

“Full grown, you claim.” She looked down upon him, “If that is the truth, then what say you is your age?”

“Twenty-five.” He enunciated clearly, overshaping his lips. The women nearby returned their frenzied gossip, and Jon was only able to make out ‘ _ seems the brown ones tend smaller then _ ’ and ‘ _ is Miss Robinson going to make chase? _ ’ before his attention returned to this Ms. Robinson.

It was true, she was taller than him. Looked stronger, too. But being so close to all these books, so close to answers, was making him brave, “Pardon me, I have research to attend.”

“I must ask you to vacate these stacks.  _ Sir _ .”

He gave her a glare, narrow eyed, before turning and darting down the aisle. She was certainly stunned for a moment, but unluckily for Jon she quickly followed after. She was quite fast, had to have been the trousers; Jon cursed himself for choosing such a tall-heeled boot for this excursion. Wasn’t his fault he liked to be taller. But now she was gaining on him, so he did the only sound thing available: tuck his arms behind a row of books and spray them all over the ground.

Of course he had the intention of using his distraction to gain some ground, that’s why he did it, but when he saw the books splayed on the floor, their runes turning to English before his eyes... Well, let’s just say he barely registered the archivist tackling him. They wrestled a bit, Jon easily overcome by the head archivist and pinned face first to the ground.

He was enthralled, “Ms. Robinson... can you read them too?” He dug one of his hands out from under himself and, hand shaking, ran his fingers along the yellowed paper. The pages were coarse, the runes grooved into the thin sheets. He felt Ms. Robinson eased her hold on him just a bit.

“Boy... Are you saying you understand the runes?”

With his newfound freedom he pulled a book towards him. These contained so much more depth than the one he had at home, more spells and history than he could’ve ever dreamed. “What does this all mean...”

Ms. Robinson took to her feet, brushing off her trousers, “It means” she sighs, “You may borrow, at any one time, one book for the maximum length of a fortnight. Do refrain from making more of a mess, if you would be so kind.” And with that, she left Jon to his business.

So he sat up, legs tucked under himself. The books fit perfectly in his lap, filled with beautiful illustrations and covered with intricate fabrics. The question now was which one to take home first?

He stared down at the tome in his lap longingly, “I would like to wake up now, I think.”

There was no answer.

* * *

It’s easy to be busy in the shed. There’s lots to clean: floors need to be swept, tools need to be sorted, cobwebs need to be removed. Or he could pull the chain on the one dying bulb and read as it swings around; he’s really getting back into books after such a long dry spell. Another option was to tend to Jon and his coffin propped up on two old sawhorses. The dust did tend to accumulate in here, and the little twitches he does occasionally isn’t enough to keep it at bay. A wet rag works best, Martin has found. But if he isn’t in the mood for another bout of depression, he’ll keep his attention pointed in some other direction. Playing around on his phone is a good option, too!

It’s when he’s looking at videos on his social media app for the day that he gets a text from Tim. He opens it, greeted by all of the other text Tim sent that he never replied to before seeing the new one: - _ hey bud, thinking of stopping by 2nite _

Now, Martin is definitely not in the mood for visitations this evening. He looks over to Jon, stock stiff save for the constant flickering of his pupils under his eyelids. If he stares long enough, one of Jon’s fingers might twitch. He groans, formulating the appropriate response to imply he doesn’t want to see Tim without seeming rude.

_ -I’m not doing much, it’ll be quite boring if you do _

He gets a response almost immediately.

_ -bugger off w that!!  _ 😡😡 _ boring? w Martin?? Unthinkable _

He grinds his teeth. It’s been some time since he’s seen Tim, seen anyone really save for his pack when it comes bedtime. The shed is where he spends most of his time.

- _ Really, I don’t think it’s a good idea… _

- _ ill just stop by for a spell, alrite? ill c u l8r  _ 🤪

Martin’s about to complain or beg or something to keep Tim from coming over, but he’s distracted by another presence.

“Wow, your friend sure is out like a light, isn’t he?” An apparition stands by the casket Jon’s settled in, his body blurry on the edges. At the sight, Martin nearly falls out of his chair with how hard he jumps. He notices Martin’s reaction and chuckles.

“My apologies, lad, didn’t mean to spook you.”

“Who are you?” A growl works its way into his voice, “Get away from him!”

The man holds his hands up, smirk not fading, and steps away, though his feet hover above the ground, “Touchy, aren’t we?”

Martin stands, straightening his back to show off his full height. He’s not much taller than the strange man, and he sure as hell isn’t as confident as he’s trying to be, but he’d do anything to protect Jon. Never trust anyone you can’t smell, “I’d like to know who you are and what you’re doing here.” He flicks his chin up, looking down at the man.

The man pulls off his captain’s hat and holds it to his chest, leaning over with a bow, “Peter Lukas. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He offers Martin a hand. Martin doesn’t take it, of course, and so Peter just laughs, “Didn’t go for my little trick, I see. Keen eye.”

Peter takes his hand and puts it through the holey wall. “A ghost then.” Martin realizes, but is still wary, “So you’ve come to haunt me.”

“That’s rather presumptuous of you.” That smirk doesn’t leave his face, “Think you’re such hot stuff that a ghost you don’t even know would haunt you?”

His back slumps, “Of course not...”

“That’s what I thought.” He approaches the coffin again. Martin’s skin lights up, electricity crackling through all of the hairs on his body. It’s hard to see a stranger get close to Jon’s vulnerable body, but he knows there’s nothing he could do to stop a ghost, and really there’s nothing a ghost could do to Jon anyway.

“People have been talking about your friend here. Besting a fae and all that.” Peter rests on the edge of the coffin, head propped up on one of his hands, “But now I’m rather disappointed. Looks like he’s on death’s door already.”

“Don’t say that.” Martin yelps, “He’s not dying! He’s- He’s just resting. He’ll wake up any minute now.”

“And how long has he been ‘resting’ now?” Martin doesn’t answer that, can’t say out loud how many nights he’s spent alone in this battered shed. Peter regards Martin’s reluctance with a smile, one that Martin can only describe as shit-eating, “Pity. I was hoping to ask for, I don’t know, an explanation. A story, perhaps.”

“You want to know how to kill fae?” 

“Maybe, maybe.” He floats away from the casket, towards Martin, “Just looking for information.”

“Well.” Martin settles back into his seat, crossing his arms across his chest. He’s had quite enough of this unwelcome guest, “He’s not in right now. I can take a message and have him get back to you later.”

The smile on his face drops, “Oh, no, I can’t wait. Very time sensitive plans going here.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

“But maybe you can.” The waves of his aura run cold over Martin’s skin as he approaches. His thick body hair doesn’t protect him from the frigid of Peter. Ghosts can run colder than vampires, it seems. “I can see you clearly care for your friend here. You must’ve been close.”

He wishes he could shove the man out of his personal space, “I don’t see why that’s any of your business.”

“Surely you’d like the world to still be around when he wakes up, hmm?”

Martin blanches. He didn’t expect Peter to take it that direction, so he’s caught off guard. Of course he wants the world to still be around, everyone does; that’s why he turns the tap off when he brushes his teeth and recycles everything he can. The fact that this dead guy knows something about it that he doesn’t is a little unsettling, but he tries not to let it show, just settles for no response.

Peter takes that as permission to continue, “Fae, Skin-renders, Vampires, Werewolves, etc... These all coexist in the world we’ve cultivated, have come to be at one point or another. Do you think this creation of night-lurkers stopped with whatever thing it made last?”

“I... suppose not.”

“So what is it you think happens when something born to bring about the end times is made?” 

Martin’s quiet. It’s ridiculous, really, to think that there could be a creature that ends the world. It’s antithetical to its own survival. The concept would make a good poem, maybe, but it’s hardly a good creature. Then again, stranger things have happened that he thought were antithetical to life. The fae is not something that he will forget.

Still, he couldn’t trust this ghost, “The world ends, I guess.”

“And if we could have something to do about it? I mean, I can only do so much on a good day, but with your help...” He drifts back over to the coffin, “Think about your sleepy friend here. Don’t you think he deserves a world to wake up to?”

Before Martin can give some snarky retort, a drawn out “Maaaaaartin~” sings out before the door to the shed swings open. He stands immediately, ready to tell Tim all about how this apparition came in without permission and he definitely was not going to help him in any way, but when Tim walks in Peter is gone.

Tim’s thrilled at Martin’s enthusiasm and pulls him into a big hug, “Oh, pal!! I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“Tim... ah haha...” he lamely returns the hug, not really in the right headspace for it. 

Behind Tim, Peter pokes his head through the wall, “Think about it.” He whispers with a wink before leaving, hopefully for good.

“What’s that?” Tim pulls away, his bright smile shining (for Martin!) and one brow cocked up in confusion. Though Martin doesn’t want him over all that much, he really is a sight for sore eyes. Part of him yearns for the simple silence he shares with Jon, while the other screams for contact from another breathing person.

He decides not to push Tim away just yet, “Just said, good to see you.”

“You are not going to  _ believe _ what I hunted the other day.”

* * *

“Mr. Sims?” Called out to Jon as he entered the institute. Normally he would’ve been halfway up the stairs by now, his body bowed over some book he decided to read today, but the rain slowed his commute. Instead he stood in the lobby, spinning around until he found the source of his name: some man he had never seen before.

He smiled, “Ah, I apologize for interfering with your routine, I know you have a penchant for our materials.”

“Indeed.” Jon offered, put off by how squirrelly this man was, standing in the doorway, what, just waiting for him? It was weird.

“You must be doing quite the research.” The man held out a hand, “James Wright, director of this establishment.”

“Ah, I see.” Warily, Jon took his hand. It was rather calloused for a bureaucrat, but dealing with books all day is sure to leave you with a few cuts, he could imagine them accumulating over the years. The powdered wig he wore was curled to perfection, not a loose hair in sight. His eyes crinkled up on the sides when he smiled.

“Actually, I wanted to have a discussion with you.” He stood aside, allowing Jon to look into the lavish office, “Would you please come in?”

Now, Jon had already damaged one relationship in the library, and while Madame Gertrude was no longer chasing him down the aisles, he still felt her ire any time they happened to pass each other. Pissing off the director of the institute would certainly bar him access to the stacks, and he could  _ not _ have that, not while he was nose-deep in so many answers.

So he gave a little bow before entering the office, the door clicking shut behind the two of them. James took his seat behind the desk in a posh leather chair - inordinately expensive for sure - and motioned Jon to sit in the wooden one in front. His bright blue eyes followed Jon as he settled into the chair, hands folded in his lap.

They sat in silence, just staring each other down, until Jon built up the courage to break it, “And for what reason would you like to speak with me?”

“Yes yes, right.” He shuffled around some papers on his desk, “Jonathan, was it? Is that quite right?”

“Jonathan Sims, aye.”

“Are you sure?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was looking into the Sims estate recently, for record purposes, you understand.” A big smile stretched across his face, “And I could not find any record of a Jonathan on the family tree.”

Had he been a younger, more feeble man, he would’ve been shaken. Instead he turned his attention to his fingertips, “Fickle thing, those records. Never quite got squared out properly when Mummy and Father died when I was just a bab. Gran’s passing has caused even more of a mess.” He refused the temptation to nibble on the already worn nails; there’s a bit of a snag on his ring finger.

James was not pleased by his rebuttal, smile dropping. He shuffled some more papers around and sighed, “How unfortunate that death is so ever present in your family. Forgive my intrusion, I just had to quell my curiosity.”

“Is this what you wished to talk about?”

“No, Jonathan, not at all.” James took a moment to straighten out his back, gather his thoughts, “You visit the stacks quite often, do you not?”

Jon nodded, “Nigh every day, sir.”

“It is an infrequent occurrence that a person be so dedicated to the study of the paranormal. Rare, even.” He stood, started to pace, “Dedication... Admiration... Intelligence.” His heels clicked together as he turned and faced Jon once more, “All traits we desire in a Magnus Institute staff member.”

Jon went rigid in his chair. He was fully prepared for a lecture about appropriate book handling (i.e. not throwing them on the floor) or maybe even a requirement that he make payments to the institute to continue using their resources. But a job offer? This he was not expecting.

“Do you decline this offer?”

He stood, squaring his shoulders, “Nay, Mr. Wright, I could never decline a generous offer like this.”

“Excellent.” James smiled, and Jon felt horrible that he was so hostile to the man. What a turn of events, “I will prepare your training materials this evening. I expect you bright and early, Mr. Sims.”

“Aye Sir.” He failed to contain the giddiness wiggling through his bones as he headed for the door. Before he left, he paused in the doorway.

He turned to see James Wright standing below the portrait of Jonah Magnus, founder of the institute. It was enormous with so much detail, highlighted all of his pores on his skin. He looked nothing like James, and yet that twinkle in his eyes...

Jon managed to ask: “May I please wake up now?”

James shook his head, that easy smile never fading, “You’ve been such an insufferable brat. Just let go, won’t you?”

With that, Jon left.

* * *

“How is our favorite corpse!” Tim knocks on the edge of the coffin. Jon doesn’t move.

“Leave him be, Tim.” Martin slouches in his chair, heaving out a heavy sigh. Tim has been trying to visit more often, noticing that Martin has been particularly out of sorts. It can be hard to find the time, between the hunting and taking care of the coven, but he makes it work. For Martin.

Tim just laughs, “What, is he gonna wake up or something? Sounds like the end of the world.” Martin flinches at that. It’s strange, but he pretends not to notice, instead turning to Jon in the box.

His skin is as pallid as it was when they first met. It’s unfortunate that it was a violent confrontation; if he had known what Jon would do for him, he certainly would’ve treated him differently. Lesson learned, he supposed. He gently holds a finger over one of Jon’s eyelids, the iris underneath wildly flicking in every direction. The eyelid is cracked and dry.

“Tim!” Martin jerks his arm away, “You’re gonna hurt him or something!  _ Please _ , just let him rest.”

“Sorry sorry.” He still stares down at Jon, “What do you think he’d be doing right now, if he were awake?” Tim thinks about this curmudgeon alive and well, unable to use a phone properly, awed by a particularly bright bulb, seduced way too easily by the promise of a book. It’s hard to believe he spent two straight weeks with the guy and yet he still didn’t know him very well. 

Martin looks down at his shuffling feet, “I don’t know... Maybe he would be reading a book or something. He was getting on with Daisy quite well, maybe he’d watch some of her soaps...”

Tim turns his attention away from Jon, instead putting a hand on one of Martin’s hunched shoulders, “Look, I know you really care about him, but... he’s gonna wake up when he wakes up.”

“I know...”

“Maybe you hovering over him all the time isn’t healthy, y’know?”

“Maybe not.”

“And like, I’m sure it’s just making you depressed. Your mum just died and all and Jon is—“

“Tim.” Martin warns, his teeth peeking up past his lips. And sure, Tim should’ve taken the hint, but he’s trying to make a point. He worries about Martin obviously distancing himself from everyone. Even that scary pack leader asked him to talk some sense into her “pup”.

So he persists, “Listen. It may feel easier to hole yourself up in here and pretend everything’s all okay, but when it comes down to how you feel—”

“Obviously it’s not okay.” Martin fights back, “Jon’s— Imagine how you’d feel if you woke up from a coma alone. I’m not abandoning him just to live what  _ pathetic scraps _ of my life I have left.”

“Pathetic scraps? What the hell are you saying?” He’ll handle Martin’s self esteem problems later, “He doesn’t need a sitter.”

“And neither do I!” He throws his hands in the air. When his furious eyes flick up to meet Tim’s, a yellow bleeds out from his pupils, taunting the soft brown, “Everyone seems to know what I should want, what I need to do, and no one gets that I’m FINE as I AM.”

“You’re fine? You’re about to hulk out right now!” Incredulous, Tim crosses his arms. Martin makes a motion like he’s about to shove him but catches himself before he’s able to make contact, curling his hands into fists instead.

“I’m just.” He grabs the nearest tool on the wall, a hammer or something, and chucks it with all of his might out into the yard, only for it to get lost in the overgrown grass, “Trying to stay SANE!”

Tim watches as his tantrum rolls through him. He’s breathing heavily, staring out over the sea of green minutely fluttering against the soft evening wind. His dark curls are heavy with grease and unkempt, in need of a trim. When he gathers his breath, he collapses against the doorway. Tim worries for a moment before he sees Martin scoop the hair out of his face with splayed fingers.

He turns back to look at Tim. Tim is not gifted with the power of night vision, so he can only make out his features faintly lit by the waxing crescent high in the sky. It’s in that wee light that he can make out the devastation poured down Martin’s face, a pure expression of giving up. They look at each other, unsure of what to say.

“I think you should leave.” Martin offers.

Tim just sighs. The night’s not going to be repaired at this point, “Fine, I will.” But he lingers as he passes Martin, unable to help himself from putting a hand on his shoulder and rubbing a few soothing circles. His voice comes out tender and intentional, “We’d love to have you over, the coven loves having you around.”

Martin shrugs him off, “Sure.”

He gives one last glance at the coffin, Jon unmoving, and heads home.

* * *

To Whom It May Concern

It appears I am losing control. Of what in particular, I cannot be certain.

He steadied his shaking hand to dip his quill in the inkwell. It’s difficult to manage and he considered just tossing the damn feather aside and abandoning the whole idea completely. Harder for someone to catch a whiff of any sort of investigation if all of the details are safe running laps in his head. But… he didn’t want to become another mystery.

_ Following the disappearance of Ms. Gertrude Robinson, the entire library has gone stiff with fear. The woman has a habit of leaving for absurd periods of time as she is very serious about her research, but the circumstances of her absence, including the time frame and the lack of information left in her wake, has the lot of them frazzled. Rumors, natural in such an Institute as our own, have begun circulating among the staff: perhaps she was felled by a foe, offed as she slumbered, taken by the Fae, etcetera. _

I refuse to believe even a sliver of it. My experience with Spellbound has proven that supernatural phenomenon is possible, but our library is filled with childish tales that have no evidence for support. Mythology taken to its extreme for people having typical fever dreams on their medicine are more reasonable explanations for these tales. My appointment to Head Archivist by Mr. Wright (to which I am ever grateful) has put me in a position to verify these stories firsthand. Undeniably, they are just that: stories.

Although, it has been difficult to get the information required when my assistants keep not returning. It appears as if most of the staff has been slowly replaced over the years; many new faces walk among these shelves. It troubles my gentle heart.

I cannot trust a soul as I may have before. In the event of personnel approaching my desk, I snap like a beaten mutt. Every day I swirl deeper and deeper into the dark and dangerous. I have taken to looking around the tunnels built under the archives, curious as to what their function must be. There was a dank metal smell in the air, last time I visited, and intuitively I knew it was wrong, inhuman.

I desperately tried to stay away from the tunnels; James even told me they were unfinished and it is dangerous, what with all the chunks of concrete just lying about. My lantern is not the best source of light there. But my desire to know what is causing that smell, causing the taint of evil in the air, is unfortunately too great to ignore.

I have a strange feeling I know to where the missing staff have gone...

He sat at his desk, unable to stop his shaking as he lit his oil lamp. Knowledge is a dreadful thing, perhaps the same thing that brought Gertrude to her doom. He knew he should just play it safe and wait for an out, but he never could bring himself to stray from what he wanted.

He tried the pen again, this time able to dip it in its inkwell. Perhaps this will be enough for whoever finds it next. He allowed the ink to properly dry before delicately folding it and putting it somewhere safe. It sat heavy in the top drawer of his desk. He reached for his lantern but stopped himself.

“Please...” he whimpered, tears flowing down his cheeks, “I know what happens next, please let me wake now, please.”

But there’s no response.

* * *

He admits it’s been a while since he’s visited Tim at  _ his _ place. It’s been a while since he’s seen the sun high in the sky too. Hard nights turn to hard mornings, and he didn’t manage to push it down today. So, he does something drastic.

He goes to Tim’s house, which has changed drastically. The brick covered in ivy and all sorts of little moving bobbles jingling and glittering in the wind. There’s a sign reading “Coven Apothecary” with a bell meant for ringing underneath it. Martin hesitates, knowing that being a guest is a burden on anyone, but eventually works up the courage to ring.

The door immediately swings open, “Welcome, welcome!” It’s Sasha in her wheelchair, “Oh!! Martin, hi! Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Yeah.” He chokes out an empty laugh, “I should.”

“Well, come in! I just put on the kettle.” She wheels off away from the door and Martin enters. The place is filled with all sorts of plants, crystals, and other magical paraphernalia to the point that it reminds Martin of one of the junk rooms back at the packhouse. He sets his attention to one particularly glossy stone, rolls it around in his hand, until Sasha returns with a tray balanced on her lap.

“Put that Selenite down and come have some tea.” She beams, “It’s rosemary and lavender. Would you like some honey?”

“No, I’m fine without.” He abandons the stone to go to Sasha’s side, “Sounds lovely by itself.”

She hands him up a mug, bits of herb swirling around in the amber liquid, “What brings you over, anyway?”

“Just... couldn’t sleep.” He gently blows on the tea, letting the hot liquid wash over his pallet. He could tell her about the tunnels Peter has been making him run around in, the chunks of body he’d come across, all the end times prophecies he’d skimmed before Peter dragged him off somewhere else. He decides against it. “I forgot Tim sleeps during the day too.”

“I could go get him, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind getting up for you.” She smiles.

Martin shakes off a blush, “I’ll go up after my tea. I want to hear about  _ you _ , what’s happened to this place?”

“Well, Trevor and Julia weren’t thrilled to have a huge coven move in, to put it nicely. So the coven decided to do something to convince them to let us stay.” She holds her hands out, “We set up shop!”

“Oh wow okay.” He scratches at the back of his neck, “What do you sell exactly?”

She waves Martin over and he follows her to the back window. Outside is a small fenced-in backyard full of trees, plants, and, markedly, naked people. They look like they might be playing a game, passing around something and giggling wildly. Sasha sighs, “They could be a little more focused, but they’re charging a crystal right now. We also make poultices and potions. Everyone’s crazy for our witch magic.”

“God I just saw Tim’s brother’s privates...” he shakes his head, “This is all great, Sash, but don’t you think it’s a little, I don’t know, dangerous to put a target on your house saying ‘Yoo-hoo! We’re in here!’?”

“Tsk. Ever since the fae trade, I’ve booby trapped like everything. Nothing is getting my coven again.”

Martin blinks, “Trade?”

“Oh, I haven’t told you?” She gestures over to the nook in the corner, “Sit, it’s a long one.”

He makes his way over to the dusty chair. People apparently don’t linger around here much. Sasha’s gaze is intense as she settles next to him, almost daring him to cower, before she eases into a thoughtful face.

“You see, Danny has a habit of exploring abandoned buildings. It’s called urban exploration. Some places are hot spots for boosting spellcasting ability, so I get why he does it. He said someone had shown him a real powerful place, swarming with magic. So we all went down there, Tim included, and tried to see what it was all about.”

She frowns, “There was a weird psychic energy there, things got confusing and mixed up. Like worms in your brain. We got fooled, walked right into a trap.” She shivers, holds herself like she’s cold, “Witches are a big deal, powerful entities. Whoever trapped us traded us to the fae for a boon. And then, well...”

“Geez... I didn’t know you could just do that.” He tries a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she remains shook up.

“Yeah... it happens.”

They fall into an awkward silence. It’s so uncomfortable to see Sasha detached that Martin pulls out the first thing he can think of to change the subject, “So, uh, do you know anything about ghosts?”

“Ghosts?” She snaps out of her stupor, “Hold on...” getting up from her chair, she grabs a book off a nearby shelf, flips through it for a second, then settles back down and hands it over to him, “Got a problem?”

“No no, just curious.” he pushes out a laugh, hoping she takes it as genuine, “Thanks.”

“If you ever need help, especially with the esoteric, I’m here for you Martin.”

He can’t take her generosity to heart. If he does, then he’ll be vulnerable. And he can’t let his guard down, not while he’s being led around by an untrustworthy spector and responsible for an almost-corpse. Even if his brain begs for the emotional connection. He decides to stand, plastering on a smile, “Thanks, Sasha. I think I’m gonna go see Tim now.”

The trek up the stairs is treacherous, getting progressively darker with each step, his body screaming to just leave well enough alone and go home. He’s extremely tired. That must be why he’s doing this. It’s wrong for him to be screaming to be alone one minute and begging for attention the next; it’s specifically wrong to subject Tim to it when he never asked.

But he stands in front of the bedroom door anyway, tempted to knock instead of just barging in. Like hell would he want to actually wake him though, so he tries the knob, sees that it turns, and lets himself in.

The lump under the blanket gently heaves up and down. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust in the dark room (Martin notes the blackout curtains are the same brand as the ones at the packhouse) and the lock on to Tim’s sleeping form. Snoring. Witless. Defenseless.

He kneels at his bedside. It’s nauseating to think of how creepy this is, that he should reach over,  _ touch _ , and jostle him awake. He just watches him sleep, his hair swaying against the pillow with every rise and fall of his breath. The white tank top leaves the broad of his dark shoulders and neck peeking up over the covers basically bare. Two little scars on his neck particularly jump out at him. It boils him to see them there, like they belong, make sense on his ever shifting skin. Why did Tim get those scars and not him?

He lays back on the floor. He knows why he doesn’t have those scars, why everything about werewolves are made disgusting to vampires to prevent mixing of different healing factors. It’s a wonder why Jon even stuck around at all. His mother certainly couldn’t tolerate him, no one without blood relation should. Maybe it’s  _ him _ preventing Jon from waking up.

As he’s about to spiral down that train of thought, Tim stirs. He flips over, eyes scrunched to try to see through the darkness, and shoots up when he gathers Martin’s form. Martin sits up, hands over his head because he is POSITIVE Tim sleeps with a weapon nearby.

“Wha— Martin?” He slurs, rubbing circles over his eyelids, “What time is it?”

“Round noon...” he admits, sheepish. Any hope he’d just chill for a while and leave quietly are now out the window.

“Agh.” Tim slaps the side of his face a few times, trying to whack the sleep out of his head, “What are you doing here?”

A pang of guilt runs so sharply through his gut, all his brain can supply is a flight response, “Oh, you know, silly Martin stuff. I should just go, leave you to your rest, rude of me to interrupt like this anyhow.”

Before he can scramble up from the floor, Tim grabs his sleeve, “No no, stay.” His eyes meet with Martin’s, and they sting even though Martin knows that he can’t really see him in the dark, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He’s compelled to answer honestly, “Couldn’t sleep.” Tim doesn’t need to know about the horror he’s been finding down in the tunnels. He’s probably mad enough already.

Tim just sighs and lets Martin go, “Well, kick off your shoes and climb in then.”

“Into... your bed?”

He yawns, “If you don’t want to, that’s your problem. I’d love a warm fuzzy guy to keep me company as I sleep.”

Martin pulls himself to standing by putting a hand on the edge of the bed, the springs squeaking under the shift. More support than his floor mat for sure, might actually mess with his back. “Are you sure?”

Tim simply holds his arms out, “Come ‘ere big guy!”

Martin huffs. He shuffles out of his shoes and accepts Tim’s outstretched arms, causing a little ‘nnph’ as they collide. But Tim takes it in stride, wrapping his arms around and squeezing tight, trying to pop the worry out of him. It relaxes Martin, he settles down onto the mattress.

Something cold pushes against his side as he settles. He fishes it out and finds it to be one switchblade knife, thankfully sheathed. Tim snatches it out of his hand, “Whoopsie! I’ll just put this over here.”

* * *

The heels of his boots clopped against the thick concrete as he ran, desperately trying to keep a hold of his lantern as he dashed through the winding tunnels underneath the institute. He’d gone too far, touched a nerve that should’ve been left alone. All his snooping culminating into this.

And now he was going to pay for it with his life.

He managed to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, walking in on James... he didn’t quite know what James was doing. Mesmerizing? Hypnotizing? Having a bloody staring contest? Whatever it was, he sucked the life out of the poor girl’s body - one of the last remaining librarian’s of Gertrude’s time - and it went limp and her skin wrinkled like a prune in the sun. James could’ve said just about anything to convince him nothing was going on, but he instead lunged at Jon. So they made chase through the tunnels.

The passages weaved and intersected in ways he could not comprehend. He figured after enough lefts and rights he’d made enough ground away from his pursuer to catch his breath. But he didn’t have much time; he had to think of a strategy.

He reasoned that spellcasting might be the answer here. Using a stray piece of metal on his lantern, he sliced open the tips of his index and middle finger. He drew a circle on the wall with two smaller circles overlapping inside, ignoring the blood dripping down and bridging the twins with the mother. He connected the compass points and worked up a fat loogie to spit in the center. As he began to inscribe spellbound runes between the two circles, his legs were pulled out from under him, smearing a good part of his work.

When he’s knocked to the ground, above him loomed James, meticulous wig abandoned for crazed auburn hair. He pinned Jon down onto concrete by his lapels, ignoring his thrashing legs. The lantern was dangerously close to his head.

“Jonathan! What a surprise!” His teeth ground around his angry smile, “Never satisfied, are you?”

“Release me!” He’d gotten blood on James’s sleeve, “Monster! Devil!”

He pulled Jon off the ground with little effort, in turn slamming him back down with tremendous force. Something cracked in his body. “Your curiosity fills me with such mirth. What a shame you had to stick your fat nose in places unwelcome!”

He picked Jon up and slid him up against the wall. The blood from his circle was still wet and rubbed into his greying hair. This was it, James was going to choke him to death, killing him like everyone else.

James’s grey eyes flashed a bright green. In an instant Jon felt woozy, in a fugue. He stopped his struggling entirely, slumping back against the wall as James just held him there, laughing through his teeth. Jon felt his mind being invaded. It was a horrible mixture of a slow, agonizing drill and a quick stab of an icepick. He wanted to fight, but couldn’t bring any more strength to his body.

Satisfied, James chucked him back onto the floor. His limp body might as well have been as dead as it appeared.

As he’s dragged by his ankles, he begged with the last of his might, “Please... I want to wake up... I remember, please...”

James only laughed, “What? And leave out the best part? The Goring of Jonathan Sims: Another Thorn in My Side Archivist?”

He tried to block it all out: being dragged back to that room, being bit and nearly sucked dry. All of his blood vessels exploded as the venom was injected inside of his still body, unable to scream out from the pain. It was the worst agony he had experienced in all of his life.

And he knew, from all the books he’d read, that if a vampire starved for long enough, they’d become dedicated to feeding, losing all of their humanity. Turn feral. As he was turned and his senses sharpened, he smelt the blood of his colleagues down the halls, more flesh than person. Soon, he’d be with them too.

* * *

“Peter—“ Martin growls as the apparition turns another corner, “I’d, ugh, appreciate it if you slowed down!”

“All the times you’ve come down here, and yet you still don’t know the way?” He shakes his head, phasing through a turn, “How disappointing. Maybe I chose wrong.”

Martin sighs. Maybe he did choose wrong; he was no savior. But he isn’t getting out of here without him, so he follows on, “Sorry, the smell around here is overwhelming...” He remembers those creatures that attacked him the first time he came down here; he hasn’t seen them since, so Peter must be good at avoiding them. Makes sense not to kill your sense of touch.

“Some of us don’t have the privilege of smell,  _ Martin _ .” The ire is thick on his tongue. Martin regrets his words immediately, deciding just to keep quiet now. It’s never worth shaking him up, it just makes him meaner.

Peter stops right in the middle of a corridor. Arms outstretched, he does a little spin and a bow, “We are here!” Martin notes there’s nothing much around: a door, some broken glass, and creepy smeared blood on the wall. He looks at Peter in disbelief, waiting for a laugh or a ‘just kidding!’ He just motions to the door, “Well? In with you!”

He holds back his grumbles as he opens the door and he’s surprised to find the interior is a fully furnished office space, a rather pompous one even. The desk in the middle is old and beautifully lacquered with a matching leather chair all sitting upon an animal skin rug. Bookshelves engulf the walls. There's even a fireplace smoldering, though the smoky fumes cannot overcome the overwhelming old person smell. Martin turns his attention to one of the glass bobbles on the desk, wondering whose office this could be.

“Attention, Martin, please.” Peter leads him to a bookshelf. At the height of his hips, there’s a row of books that Peter’s adamant he takes. All of the covers are variants of blacks and grays, some having that eye-searing bright green as an accent color. He picks up a few and cradles them in his arms, wondering if Peter will actually let him thumb through one before they leave, but as he’s about to open one up, the hair on the back of his neck stands to attention.

“P-Peter...” he hisses, quiet, “There’s someone coming.”

“Coming?” He frowns and sticks his head through the wall for what feels like eternity, before jerking it back in with panic in his eyes. “Under the desk, Martin, under the desk!” And Martin dives under there fast and efficiently. He picks up heels clicking down the halls, getting louder and louder and oh god the door’s opening and—

“Peter?” The voice says, dripping with disgust, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Elias! Who would’ve thought we’d be meeting here, of all places?”

“This is  _ my _ office.” He sighs, “If you wanted to bother me, I’d prefer if you came back another day, not really in the mood, if you could imagine.”

“Aww, what’s got you down?” Footsteps click through the room, “Couldn’t find another body to snatch?”

“Oh, ha ha.” Elias comes around the desk, and Martin can see him through the arm of the chair. Seems middle aged, dark hair slicked back neatly with some grey on the sides. One earring dangling off his right ear, looks like maybe it’s an eye? “Seriously, I’d appreciate it if you just left.”

“You can’t be putting poor old me out on the streets, can you? I came to see you! You’d deprive me that?”

Elias sneers, “We hate each other very much, I doubt you came for anything other than just to make my day harder.”

“Oh come on.” Peter steps through the desk, legs stopping dead center of one of Martin’s thighs. He has to shove almost his whole fist in his mouth to stop a gasp from coming out, “Where’s the playful banter? The snide remarks?” 

“I said, I’m having a bad. day.” He punctuates with a solid bang on the desk. The air in the room changes, pressure pushing down on Martin’s lungs, building behind his eyes. Painfully his head throbs, struggling to keep his eyes open to see Elias’s irises pulsating green. It feels like his head might pop off his neck.

“What if I told you the Lukas family may be willing to up their donation to your institute?” Peter seems unfazed, and it’s enough to get Elias to stop doing  _ that _ , “A few more bodies? Maybe, perhaps, another boon?”

Elias straightens his back, brushing his jacket flat as if he didn’t just throw a tantrum, “Hmph. I assume there will be terms?”

“Why don’t we go take a brisk walk about it?” Finally he steps out of Martin’s area, hopefully towards the door, “I hate it in this stuffy office. Need the movement to think.”

“Fine.” Elias bristles, walking out of sight, “But I am a busy man, Peter, if you’re taking the piss with me, I will be cross.”

“Right.” Peter laughs, “We’ll just take a little walk and then I’ll  _ leave _ .” He says it higher and more intentionally than the rest, and Martin knows Peter’s actually talking to him. The door opens and shuts with a click. He waits one moment, two moment, three... before scrambling out from under the damn desk, pushing his ear to the wall until he can no longer hear the footsteps down the hall.

Books in hand, he bursts out of the room, sprinting in a direction he knows is safe and may be the right way out. He weaves through tunnels until he finally reaches the exit, surprised he could even find it on his own in the first place. 

He takes a blessed moment to catch his breath, weighing his options on whether to wait for Peter or to just go home. In the end, he figures that Peter knows where he lives (and, wow, that’s kinda frightening when he thinks about it) and if he needs him, he’ll just come to the shed.

So Martin returns home, night still young. He trudges to the shed, passing by the side of the house as to avoid the pack whenever he can. When he enters, he sets down the books and opens the casket with such little effort it’s like muscle memory. Jon’s still there, unharmed yet unawake. It’s refreshing to see peace on his face instead of the furrowed brow he’s been sporting as of late. 

It reminds him of the nights he woke a little early, the sun just setting, and Jon was still sound asleep, curled up on himself.

Martin brushes some of thick black hair back behind Jon’s ear and then decides not to bother him too much tonight. He takes his rightful place on his foldable chair and picks up one of the books he had stolen,  _ Creatures of Catastrophe _ .

He gives it a little flip through, no pictures, before returning to the start. The words are slow like molasses and stick irritatingly to the back of his eyelids. He slumps in his chair, “Seems like a dry one...” 

He knows Jon can’t hear him, but it helps him nonetheless, “Maybe it’d go down easier if I read it to you? How’s that sound?” He waits for a response but then remembers, “Captive audience.”

He scoots his chair closer to Jon, close enough to see the eyeballs knocking around in his head. After a rough throat clearing, he starts at the top of the first page.

“Within these pages is the prescription of the end times, creatures come to destroy all that we are.”

* * *

_ Dirt to ash, inseparable from charred flesh _

He dug in the dirt, knelt in front of his family home. Empty thing, now that his grandmother had passed. It might as well just be a haunted house now. The dirt gathered under his uneven nails; it’s irritating, but not enough to stop him from digging the small trough.

_ Enough power to reverse the earth’s steady rotation _

“This is not a memory.” He noted aloud. As he completed the arc of the circular trough, the swallow thing filled clear water. It sparkled in the sun. His fingertips danced in the little miracle, sweet on his tongue when he gave it a taste.

_ Poisoned water, barren soul, a razed world _

He regarded the line of stones near his knees. They too glittered with the sun flittering through the ginkgo leaves. He couldn’t remember their names, just their purposes: a brown banded rock for harmony, a shiny black stone for protection, a clear crystal for balance, and a pink shard for love. He carefully contemplated which stone he should choose.

_ I will dearly miss the sheen of thine eyes when the earth is in smolders _

“Gaia...” his hands hovered over the array of stones, “I know I do not deserve your grace, your honor...”

_ Even our souls will not remain. They will eat us whole in ways we could’ve never imagined _

The words vibrated through his bones. It was impossible to know where his voice was coming from - not through his ears, no, but definitely ringing in an intensity that he was unable to ignore, to cherish. He knew he’d never heard Martin say these words before. What could the source be?

“I miss them incredibly.” He picked up the pink stone, cool to the touch, “I miss the people I had come to know. But that is not a good enough reason to save me, is it?”

_ When the end times come, will you be sure you’re prepared? _

He placed the pink stone in the middle of his moat. Once again he began carving into the ground with forceful curls of his fingernails. Dirt parted easily under his touch. He engraved small runes along the inner edge of the moat, more instinct than conscious effort.

“More than anything, I wish to wake again.” He pressed his forehead against the earth, the dampness making a wet spot. He considered his place in the circle of life: his connections to the living, his usefulness to feeding the ecosystem, his love proliferated. Would it be enough for Mother Gaia?

_ Radioactivity will slowly deteriorate our pathetic bodies _

“Dear Gaia, mother of all.” He almost didn’t continue, but steeled his resolve as he always has, “I have asked for too much of your love. I apologize. But please,  _ please _ , just one more request...”

_ We will build coffins out of bones and beauty out of our bubbling flesh _

“All I desire is to wake.”

_ Ten neat tricks to make sure your bunker is fully prepared for nuclear fallout! _

The pink quartz sunk into the ground, as if being swallowed. Jon watched the moat expand inwards and eat through the mass of land in the middle. A small puddle was now gathered at Jon’s knees, threatening to splash onto his trousers with how violently the miniature waves were roaring. It only calmed when he looked down into it and saw his reflection haloed by the sun.

He was drawn in. It drew his face closer and closer, like a magnet pulling him in, until he breached the surface. There was no use in thrashing or resisting; his body slid into the small puddle face first, taking away his air and the sensation on his skin. It gobbled him down completely until there was no more of him left.

_ Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down _

* * *

It’s always tiresome going down into the tunnels, but he really is starting to grasp the layout down there. Peter doesn’t even drag him down there anymore; it’s just Martin, the tunnels, and a nice good long quiet think. Sure, he’s had a few almosts with that Elias guy (who creeps him out to no end), but he’s handling himself down there pretty well.

So today he got a new book. It’s tattered and he picked it because it’s a poetry book, so even if it does freak him out and give him nightmares at least he’ll enjoy reading it aloud to Jon. The poetic ones seem to be more mournful than the other genres, much sappier too.

As he’s returning to his shed, distracted by Tim texting him trying to invite himself over again, he notices the vibe is off. He stops in front of the door, hand almost to the handle, and notices there is sound coming from the shed. Words, even. Words he recognizes: Daisy’s words.

Best he can, he shakes himself out of his distracted stupor and latches on to the words. She sounds... angry, like she’s gritting her teeth, “You can’t just keep... sleeping like this.”

Quietly, Martin moves to one of the holes in the flimsy shed’s wall to see what’s happening. Daisy’s gripping the edge of the coffin, knuckles white, “You can’t cause such a fuss and then just disappear. It hurts people, it’s hurting my pack.”

She pulls away from the coffin, “The pup’s been hurt the most. He’s going places I don’t know about and doing who knows what. Dangerously close to going lone wolf. All because his sweet little ‘pyre decided to die.”

Here’s where Martin busts in, “He’s not dead.”

Daisy’s caught off guard. A wave of shame washes quickly over her face before it’s replaced with something more stoic, “Martin.”

“He’s not dead.” He repeats, stepping into the shed, “Admit it, he’s not dead.”

Daisy’s nostrils flare, “Oh, you think he’s not dead? Wake him up then.”

Martin’s nearly growling, “That’s not how it works. He’ll wake up when he wakes up! And none of” he gestures to himself, “ _ this _ is his fault.”

“Listen here, pup.” She pins Martin against the wall with a loud clunk, some tools falling off their hooks on the opposite wall, “If you abandon this pack because you can’t get over a dead body, that’s fine by me. But I won’t let you put us in danger because you’ve decided you’re better on your own.”

“He’s not—“ he knocks his forehead up against Daisy’s, ready to spit, growl, bark, anything to show he’s angry. Instead, his lips wobble and his eyes squeeze shut.

He promised himself he wouldn’t cry... so much for that.

Daisy pulls back, shocked, and Martin limply lays back against the shed, trying to hide his sobbing face with his hand. It’s embarrassing to fall apart in front of anyone, but ESPECIALLY Daisy. He’s got so much to prove to her; the youngest of the pack must always have a lot to prove.

“H-Hey...” she forces out, tentatively putting a hand on Martin’s shoulder. She’s never been an emotional, touchy kind of person. That’s part of the reason Martin’s never seen her as a surrogate mother. Another part is that she looks about his age. And the other part is...

“Fine, whatever.” She relents, “He’s not dead. Now stop crying.”

He desperately tries to sniffle the snot back into his nose, wiping whatever else is on his face on his sleeve. Daisy’s disgusted face looks like she’s personally witnessing a war crime. Martin tries not to take it to heart, “You don’t really mean it...”

“Doesn’t matter if I mean it.” She sighs, “The day he gets up and starts walking around is the day I’ll admit he’s alive, alright?”

He rolls his eyes, “Hopefully that’s soon...”

“Yeah.” All she can do is awkwardly pat his shoulder before pulling her arm back, crossing it with the other one.

“Please don’t bother him anymore.” Martin straightens up, “He needs rest.”

“Fine, fine.” She huffs, “I’ll leave you to him then.” Deep down, Martin wishes for an apology. He knows he won’t get one, as she leaves the shed, but it’s nice to imagine.

He never knew his father, he left well before Martin ever got the chance. Maybe there’d always been a hole in his heart that his father left behind, maybe it formed when his mother started getting viscous, maybe he was born like that, full of holes. But Daisy, she cares. Even if she refuses to show it outright, everyone knows she cares. And that’s enough to sort of fill one of those big holes.

He takes a seat in his usual folding chair - now sporting a small pillow as a cushion! - and scoots close to Jon. After that, he’s eager to just drift away into reading a book.

* * *

Jon sits in a flimsy folding chair. The place he’s in (which he can’t remember arriving at) is completely white and looks to go on as far as he can see. He’d feel scared floating in its infinity if not for the man sitting in front of him.

He’s completely focused on the clipboard gripped in one of his dark hands. For a moment he seems struck by a thought, so he pulls the pen out from behind his ear, pink tongue darting from his plump lips to wet the point of it, and jots something down. He smiles, satisfied, and his top twists flop as he jerks his head up to look at Jon.

“Jonathan Sims.” His smile is warm and inviting, “Welcome back! I was just reviewing your files. Who knew you’d have so many performance reviews?”

“Performance—? Where am I?” Jon eyes his crisp pressed suit up and down, then tries looking side to side and confirms, yep, still nothing.

The man just shakes his head, “Sorry, I forgot that you forget this place. I don’t often get repeats.” He holds out his hand, and for some reason Jon doesn’t hesitate to shake it, “Oliver Banks, at your service. Ha! Well, here on your behalf, at least.”

“Pray tell, what is... here?” Oliver’s hand is frigid, so he lets go at his soonest convenience.

“Hold on, hold on. Let me give the spiel.” He clears his throat, “Welcome to the afterlife. You died! Congratulations! I’m the gatekeeper here to make sure you get to the right place.”

Jon is not surprised. He knows he died, knows he’s dead: he traded his life for the life of others. Though, he wasn’t expecting to live through every traumatic event of his life again, with some juicy horrific twists added. If that’s part of the deal, he guesses he earned that much. He crosses his arms, nonplussed.

“Now this is the part where I’d wax poetic about chosen god or gods and how, they could be watching, yes, but this is how we do it on the ground BUT you are already familiar with Gaia. I know.”

“So Gaia has chosen to end my cycle?” That’s a little disappointing, but he’s already asked for so much so he can’t say he didn’t expect it.

He’s surprised when Oliver immediately shoots him down, “No no no, Jon - can I call you Jon? - it says here...” he swiftly flips through the pages, “There’s a full write up of your previous performance. It looks like you’re getting a promotion.”

“A... promotion?” An intense urge to chew his fingernails down to nubs floods him, but he forces himself into the moment with a deep breath, “Are you implying that I will be returning to... life?”

“And with a boon! You’re being reclassified as ‘living dead’ rather than ‘undead’. Important distinction.” Oliver hums a little tune, reading over the page, “Very impressive work, Jon. If I had to critique you, I’d say you should try to be more proactive rather than reactive in the future.”

“I do not understand.” He massages at his growing headache, “What have I done to deserve the grace of mother Gaia?”

“Allow me to illustrate.” Oliver stands and pulls forward a wheeled dry erase board. Jon’s stunned that it came from nowhere, but Oliver starts talking too soon for Jon to fully process it, “Here we have a chart of the sum total of witches, Gaia’s chosen, on the y-axis over time, the x-axis.”

The line is pretty steady, increasing a little at the beginning and only having small fluctuations along it. “We’ve had to adjust for inflation over time, of course, but the number created remains steady: the total of witches cannot be modified when the completion of existing witches’ cycles are in question. Therefore,  _ this _ ” he points to a portion towards the end of the line where it drops a significant amount, “is a big problem.”

“Sasha’s coven.” 

“Bingo.” Oliver trances onward, “The result of your intervention has brought the line up closer to net zero. You’ve really saved us from a lot of ethical considerations and HR paperwork.”

“I am glad my efforts, in the end, bore fruit.” So the coven actually made it out, that’s good news. His sacrifice wasn’t in vain.

“Lots of fruit. Lots of juicy, sweet fruit.” Oliver sits back down and crosses his legs, “So, are you ready to go back to your body?”

Jon sits up, alert, “Aye, I believe so.” He huffs, “Are you going to take my memory this time as well?”

“Take your memory?” He frowns, flips some pages, “Huh. We don’t allow you to retain the memories of this place, but taking your preexisting memories is not a service we provide. Seems there must be an agent on Earth causing that.”

Jon frowns too, “When I go back, my memory...”

“I have a feeling you’ll figure it out, Jon.” Oliver gives a placating smile, but despite the forced nature of it, it does make Jon feel better. Then he stands and gets close to Jon, placing his cold hand on Jon’s cheek, “You’re one of Gaia’s chosen, after all.”

“Are there people waiting for me?” He stares into Oliver’s eyes, the iris completely black like staring into a void. They’re beautiful.

“Yes.” Oliver says, “I must say, if you keep coming back here, I might start getting a little crush on you.”

“Pardon?” But instead of an answer, Jon gets icicle lips pushed against his own. His shock is quickly overtaken by a weird feeling of familiarity; they’ve done this at least once before. It takes all his energy to not shiver as he leans into the pressure, the delicate softness of Oliver’s lips. He feels himself slipping away.

“Hope to see you again.”

* * *

“We plant seeds in the barren earth, praying for summer to grow once again, for we do not know how much longer we can take this cold. If we— AH!“ Martin yelps when Jon’s hand shoots up and grips the edge of the coffin hard enough to dent. The adrenaline of fear now running through him prevents him from calling out. Instead, he stands to get a better view of Jon, head thrashing as if in the throes of a bad dream.

Jon’s eyes flash open. All of his senses are muted except for his sense of smell, drawing him directly to the nearest source of blood. He has no time to think, he’s so, so  _ hungry _ . His body parts move towards the warm, gushing blood conveniently right next to him. There’s sounds, panicked sounds, that he ignores, baring his fangs. He’s moving and then there’s flesh under his teeth and god he can almost taste it through his nose.

It’s acrid burn sears his veins. He drinks, despite the disgusting taste like alcohol to a child raised on nothing but sweets, and drinks and  _ drinks _ and surely this person must’ve run out of blood? And he’s whimpering, weakly pushing Jon away yet holding him still at the same time and his smell is intense and— Oh my stars, it’s Martin!

Jon pushes off all at once, standing over the man he must’ve knocked to the ground in the commotion. He’s overwhelmed with dawning horror, intense shame, and shining joy. It’s Martin, alive and well.

Well, he’s a little pale, but his color is slowly fading back into his cheeks. He stares at Jon, mouth agape and hand on the wound currently gushing on his neck. His eyes are the widest Jon could ever recall.

Jon smiles, “Marti—“ A pressure suddenly pushes against his forehead. It’s internal. The pressure builds and builds until it feels like all of his facial features are going to shoot off of him in pieces like a Mr. Potatohead. He grits his teeth hoping to relieve some of the pain, but when it doesn’t work he just falls to his knees, head in his hands. Just brought back and now he’s going to die again? Easy come, easy go.

Then, like a flip of a switch, it’s all gone.

“Jon?!” A man fumbles over to him, looking just a right mess. He smells horrible, like a wet dog. There’s no way he’s letting this man touch him.

He stands before the man is able to hold him, as is what appeared to be his plan, “Excuse you.” The man falls to the ground, looking up at Jon with pitiful eyes, “Can I help you?”

The man teeters as he stands, utter despair on his face, “Please... please tell me you remember me...”

“You do not look very memorable.” He’s suddenly feeling defensive, realizing he doesn’t know where he is or who this man is. The odor is repulsive, yet little butterflies mingle in his guts.

The man, understandably, reacts poorly, “Bastard!” He chucks something glowing at Jon before taking off out of the shed. And oh does that make him feel like shit. That guy looked so destroyed, like Jon said the worst thing he ever could, targeted the innocent man’s deepest insecurity. Maybe he should apologize...

But then the thing the man threw at him starts to vibrate. It’s horrifying: glowing without any heat. He keeps the thing at arms length away from him dangling between two fingers and decides he can’t stay in the shack forever, so he’ll go find some answers. The back door to the house is cracked open, so that seems like a good place to start.

He’s met with an army of stares as he enters. The hulking crowd all pauses in their activities in an eerily quiet, and he regrets coming in for a moment, until they all rush him, nearly tackling him with their attention. Lots of sniffing and licking. It’s surprisingly not as bad as he expected. Although it does overwhelm them quickly, so he pushes them all away best he can.

The scariest woman he’s ever seen approaches him, “God, Jon, you’re actually alive.”

Jon pulls the thing he was holding close to his chest, “Uh, there was... a, uh, man, out yonder...”

“A man?” She bristles, “What was he like? Where’s Martin?”

“Oh, oh!  _ Mar _ tin.” A bubble of recognition pops in his brain, “Aye, Martin, about yea tall, dark hair with a minute curl, almond eyes, looks he might cry—“

She puts a hand on his shoulder, “ _ Jon _ . I know who Martin is. Huff, your brain must be fried. Wait, what is that?” She yanks the object from Jon’s hand.

“Oi! That is mine!” Jon protests, but doesn’t dare to try to get it back. He doesn’t want to be eaten alive.

“This is Martin’s phone.” 

He didn’t know what a phone was, “Well, he threw it before he ran off.” He neglects to mention that it did hit him square in the chest and probably left a mark with the force it was thrown at. Not pertinent right now, he supposes.

She groans, “You better find him and give him true love’s kiss or whatever the hell he wants. Full moon’s tomorrow so he needs to be back tonight.” She moves her fingers on the surface of the phone and Jon sees the pictures moving, “Here, the GPS is set to that hunter’s house. He’s been going there a lot.”

Jon takes the phone, flabbergasted by the thing. He looks back up at the woman, pupils blasted. She sighs, “Just follow the arrow and you’ll get there.”

“Right...” The light is nearly blinding, “Follow the arrow...” The hero begins his journey.

* * *

The tunnels don’t hold in much warmth with all the porous concrete, but his fur is enough to keep him from freezing. He fights the urge to get on all fours and do some laps; he’s not an animal. Instead, he settles for a dead end corridor and curls up in a little ball.

So Jon’s gone then. The hollow of his misery echoes down the halls. Should anyone pass by, they might think he’s a ghost or a wraith, so let these sobs be a warning to anyone with too much curiosity. Then again, he knows these are barren corridors, save for one vile, suited man and a gaggle of feral vampires (those are barely alive anyway).

He ponders calling out for Peter, hasn’t seen him in a good few days, he could potentially be around. But no, he knows Peter would just make him feel worse. He would call Tim, but, well, his phone is not currently on his person.

So he just sobs to himself, mourning the man he once knew. Maybe he’ll be okay after a nap.

* * *

There was no more map to follow, but this place didn’t seem like a hunter’s house. It seemed more like a kooky apothecary, what with all the bells and whistles. He’s a little nervous; he has no idea what to expect. A hunter is probably huge, bulky, sharp toothed, likely to hold a knife to a stranger’s neck, evil, god he isn’t going to ring that bell, is he?

He feels faint - granted, he felt a little woozy on his way over, for some reason - and inches his hand as slowly as he can towards the bell’s cord. Admittedly, he appreciates the familiarity of a bell rather than some confusing electronic device; it helps him feel more at ease. The chime is deep and throaty, much lower than expected from a bell about the size of his hand. It feels nice.

It takes a harrowing, infinite moment for the door to be answered, and Jon’s floored by a godlike man, golden brown skin and hair coiffed by an artist, most likely. His jaw falls slack as he looks Jon over, and the attention really inflates his ego, but of course there’s no way he measures up to this man in any capacity.

“Jon...” his hands softly box Jon in by his shoulders, and just when Jon thinks the man is about to burst into tears, he lunges forward and picks Jon up by his waist, “Great Gaia, you’re awake! I can’t believe it!”

“Nobody can.” He gets shaken around a bit before the man finally sets him down.

“Where’s Martin?” The smile doesn’t fall from his face, just a dash of confusion is mixed in.

“I... have not the faintest idea.” Jon admits.

It’s then that the smile falls, “Come again?”

“We hoped he would be here.”

“ _ We _ ?”

“You must know.” He can’t admit he never got her name, “The- The scary woman? Blonde and tall? Heavily scarred?”

“Daisy?” One of his hands returns to Jon’s shoulder, beckoning him towards the door, “Maybe we should talk, come in, come in.”

The two settle in a cozy alcove surrounded by books and soft lamp light. Jon tells the man, Tim, the embarrassing story of his waking and his first encounter with the man on the lamb. Tim’s shocked, horrified by the fact that he’s MIA. He regards the phone with hesitation.

“I have to call her...” He grimaces, “I have to give her the bad news...”

“I do not see why everyone must fuss over this man. Can he not care for himself?” Jon crosses his arms. It’s not as if he hasn’t been thoroughly fussed over all night, but Martin was rather rude to him. Why does he deserve the attention?

“Oh, I forgot to mention: Martin’s a bloody werewolf, Jon.” He snatches the phone out of Jon’s lap, “If he goes wolfie in the streets and eats a lonely lass, someone is going to guillotine him!” 

Geez. Sure Martin threw something at him, but he doesn’t deserve to die for it, “I see your point.”

So, Tim makes the call. He paces in a figure 8 pattern as it rings and rings, gnawing at his lip with his, wow, what perfect teeth! When it finally picks up, a polite smile smoothes over his face, "Daisy! Hey! No, no, Martin’s not here... I don’t know, I—" Then there’s a lot of yelling from the speaker, and Tim’s face goes through a journey of pain, shame, and defeat. It goes on like that for a good, long while, before Tim finally whimpers, “I’ll try my best, thanks Daisy..." and hangs up.

Jon forces a smile, "Did it pass well?"

"This is bad, super bad." Tim takes a deep breath and pushes the bang out of his eyes, "The bloody morning is coming and we have to find Martin before moonrise tomorrow or we’re dog food."

"We?" Jon stands, "There is no we, I cannot go out into the sun." 

"I know, I know." He huffs, "Let’s just set you up in my room for the day, and as soon as the sun sets, we’ll set off together. I can do some investigation while you’re asleep."

“Will there be enough time?” Jon asks as Tim nearly pushes him up the stairs.

“As long as we can get him someplace secluded, he should be fine, even if he is a wolf.” Tim stops in front of a door, a big smile on his face, “And we have the perfect bait right here!”

“Me?”

“Yes Jon, he knows your smell.” Jon doesn’t have time to ask questions like  _ why does Martin know his smell? _ or  _ Does it have to be him that is used as bait? _ as he is instead put upon a whole new set of questions when he sees inside the room.

His night vision so handily reveals the sea of bodies snoozing in various positions on the bed, across the floor, even on top of each other. While the scene of a flagrant display of affection sends a shiver of something terrible through him, it also fills him with a weird deja vu.

He turns to Tim, who seems very serious about this proposition, even urging him to enter, and he can’t help an incredulous scoff, “Surely you jest.”

“Nay, Sire, I would never jest in your court.” Tim mimics the posh of Jon’s accent.

“I do  _ not _ sound like that.”

“You do.” His smile drops, “Listen, this is the only room with blackout curtains, so you either get comfy with the coven, or you find any other spot to curl up and when the sun rises you’ll be crispier than the fish and chips my mum burnt the one time she tried to make them at home. 4th degree burns, if you’d believe.”

Hmm, he does not want 4th degree burns. He regards the coven again, noting the peace on their sleeping faces. It is his only option, isn’t it? “...Where should I sleep?”

“Well uh, I think I see an empty spot on the bed there.” He ventures into the room, careful of the people on the floor, “Yeah, right there.” Jon comes in after him, trying his best to swallow his nerves down. As he gets ready to step on the bed, he watches Tim bend over and ruffle the hair of one of the witches who looks remarkably a lot like him. The softness of his features warms Jon’s cold heart in a way he never expected. It overtakes him, in fact.

As Tim straightens back up, Jon’s nearly shivering with a feeling he can’t match to a meager name. Jon holds a hand out to him, fingers trembling, and Tim actually takes it, “Is something wrong?” His voice is soft and easy, peppered with concern just for Jon.

Jon follows the feeling shaking his bones, and it leads him right into Tim, wrapping his arms back behind him then up and over Tim’s shoulders. Such an embrace is foreign in his imagination and such an imagination could never, ever live up to the thrill of Tim’s arms wrapping so tightly around his back that it nearly pulls his feet off the ground. He’s just a touch warmer than Jon.

“Ohh...” Tim lets out a deep sigh, “I’m really glad you’re awake, chap.”

“Yet you deign to put me back to sleep so soon.” He pulls away with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Hey, you better rest up, because if we don’t find Mr. Wolfie, you and I are gonna be asleep permanently.” He shoos Jon off towards the bed, “Goodnight Jon.”

“Good morning, Tim.” He braves the bed, carefully stepping between two women, one of them snoring as loudly as possible. It’s a snug fit, but as soon as he’s comfortable, the door clicks shut. 

Now that Tim’s gone, loneliness resides in his place. He has no clue why Tim is such a comforting presence - it could be the smile or the body language, or perhaps just how damn  _ attractive _ he is - and all comfort has fallen away, leaving him lost in a foreign land. One of the women rolls over and drapes her arm over his middle. His instinct is to push her away, but the pressure is absolutely delicious. It feels weird to just let a stranger hold him like this, but he’s too blissed out to care at this point. He feels an otherworldly connection to these strangers.

He sleeps and dreams of concrete corridors and ways to end the world. 

That man, Martin, paces lonely and cold. Almost ghostly. He traces his fingers over a bloody handprint on the wall, and it tingles on Jon’s metaphysical palms. Martin softly cries: tears roll but no sound. It’s pitiful, and Jon just wants to reach out and wipe them from his pillowy cheeks, despite not really being there. 

A swift breeze echoes down the hall, bringing with it the scent of fury. Martin isn’t bothered, in fact, he leisurely stands and trots off to somewhere else, as if he were used to this occurring. But the smell reminds Jon of fear and betrayal, of exploding veins and a knife in the back. A man he trusted in a past life.

When he wakes, he’s being shaken, laying in a puddle of blood soaking the sheets. The source of the shaking, Tim, is wide eyed, and the source of the blood, his nose, is slowly drying up.

“Bloody hell, mate, I lay down to rest for 10 minutes and you nearly bleed out on me.” He goes to rub the blood off of Jon’s Cupid’s bow and gets pushed away.

“I know where Martin is.” Jon’s eyes are blown wide. 

“Shit.” Tim huffs, fatigue clear in his face, “At least now one of us does.”

* * *

The corridor air is cold on their skin, causing their skin to plump with goosebumps. While Tim is particularly bothered by the vibes of the place, Jon is more concerned with the warning scent in the air, threatening any who dare to enter. It's tacky and sticks to the insides of his nostrils. Neither of them know where to start, so they aimlessly wander.

"Well," Tim breaks the silence that had settled over them, "If he causes a ruckus down here, I think it won’t be too big of a deal."

"Hopefully Daisy will spare our lives, then?" 

"Yeah, I think she will." He sighs, "I would say we can just leave him to his devices, but you got dinged up quite badly last time you were down here."

Jon nods, "I smell something dreadful. As if a presence here desires our demise."

"Wonderful!" Tim shakes his head, "Why don’t you use your special nose to sniff out our furry friend?"

"Oh, that is actually a fine idea. From you, I am shocked." The smug smirk on his face doesn’t stop Tim shoving him even if he snickers along. Getting back to business, Jon takes a deep breath through his nose, cataloging all of the threads of information. It’s easy to pick up the sour smell of werewolf lingering about, so he sets upon the trail.

The corridors wind and double over themselves. He circles over his own route so many times that he wonders if they’ll ever find Martin in this maze. The endeavor seems pointless until the smell crescendos into an overwhelming mass right by a door. Martin must be here.

Before he approaches the door, he notes the circle on the wall opposite of it. It’s crude, obviously done in a rush, and unfinished. The sloppiness makes him scorn whoever created the thing. How disrespectful. It’d be best to finish it, he decides, turning to Tim to see what he thinks, “I think it would be best if...”

But Tim’s not by his side. Or the other side. Or behind him. Tim’s nowhere to be found. He should’ve realized sooner that he was being rather quiet and patient. He’ll look for him after he tends to the circle.

It’s rather big, so whoever made it must’ve had a big sacrifice in mind. The runes are incomplete, but judging from the ones he can read, he makes a logical guess on what the completed spell must be. As he extends a fang, pricks a finger, and even as he writes runes on the wall, it’s only then he registers that, wow, he really shouldn’t know any of this. Yet, as he curls a finger in his graying hair and yanks out a chunk with one solid tug, it’s only natural to lick the strands to help stick them to the wall, natural to hold his palms against the east and west, and imbue them with a hum.

The circle hums back, the hair burning away, and glows. Once he’s done admiring his work (loathe the fool who left it incomplete in the first place) he turns to the door behind him. It’s so thick with Martin’s smell that it may damn well contain the man himself, whatever form he may be at the moment. So Jon grips the icy knob and turns.

There is, unfortunately, no Martin. Instead, a well-dressed man sits behind a desk, fingers steepled in front of him. He cocks a grin, “Jonathan. Come in, why don’t you.”

“No.” Just looking at this man fills him with fear. Their eyes catch, a horrible trap preying on human nature’s desire to connect, and Jon is powerless. His mind screams run, but his body defies. One miserable step at a time, he gets closer to the desk, pressure building in his skull threatening to crush his feeble brain into a viscous soup. And in one graceless swoop, he plops down into the chair.

“Walking right into my office. How funny.” He hums, “Are you the one who let the mangy mutt into my archives?”

“I... I do not...” the man furrows his brow at Jon’s reluctance, increasing the pressure inside his head, “I-I did not bring him here.”

The man sits back and the pressure lessens, “Hm. Perhaps I should absolve you then?” He stands, click click as he circles around the desk, gripping Jon’s chin tightly, “Do you know who I am, Jon?”

He swallows thickly before answering, “Nay.”

“Well. Allow me to remind you.” His eyes flash and Jon is assaulted with memories of being dragged down the halls, of being held down against his will, of feeling the intense pain of being turned. He feels all of his veins.

“James—“ But this man looks nothing like the one in his memory, “How...?”

“That one was called James Wright, this one Elias Bouchard.” He smiles, “All of it just a new home for Jonah Magnus. It’s so easy to take a mind, erase everything it knows, and just insert your own memories. Perhaps I should do the same to you, Jon?” His nails dig into Jon’s cheeks, and he thinks about all the people he didn’t get to say goodbye to. 

But as soon as the pressure’s there, it’s gone. Elias has meandered over to some bookshelf, starting with a sigh, “Unfortunately I have you promised to someone else. He should be around. Peter?”

The room is still for a long moment. Just when Jon thinks nothing is going to happen, a spectre waltzes through the wall looking as smug as can be. He stops in front of Jon, getting up in his face, “Have a nice nap, mate?”

“I really can’t tolerate your games right now, Peter.” Elias huffs, “Let’s just get this annoyance out of my life, once and for all.”

“Quite a catch.” Peter notes as Elias makes his way over, “A vampire  _ and _ a spellcaster. Really a treat. Here I thought I’d have to settle for your wolfie friend, but thank goodness you decided to wake up.”

“I’m sure you would’ve appreciated the way werewolf smell irritates me...” Elias’s hands grasp the sides of Jon’s head from behind. As this happens, the pressure in his head starts to build again. “Just focus and you’ll have your fresh body soon enough.”

Everything glows. The ghost in front of him smiles; his ethereal form vibrating. There’s commotion in the hall. The nails digging into his forehead threaten to pop the front plate of his skull off, as if attempting to burrow themselves into his defenseless brain. He begs his body to move, get away from here. Elias is laughing. Peter is laughing. Jon wishes he could cry.

The door flings open and a bunch of fleshy beasts come pouring in, some nicked with bite marks. The sudden flood of movement is enough to shake Elias off and for Peter to flee the room. Jon can smell the old hunger on the things, but the fear is fresh. As he turns to the door, a giant doglike animal vaults over both him and Elias, snapping one of the fleshy creatures easily between its jaws. The blood matted in its fur is proof that this kill was not its first this evening.

The creatures are frantic, taking swings at Jon whenever they circle around the small office in a pitiful attempt to soothe their need to feed. Elias, obviously not pleased with this turn of events, jumps Jon, knocking him off the chair. He is definitely stronger than Jon, able to pin his frail body by the shoulders. But Jon fights back as best as he can now that he can move: one hand pushing him back by the jaw, the other trying to get one of the hands off his shoulder. Elias’s claws have made a home in the tender meat there.

“Are you ignoramus Archivists capable of doing anything other than ruining my plans?” He spits, slamming a hand down near Jon’s head, Jon barely managing to dodge, “Miserable worms always sticking their noses where they don’t belong. I’ll ruin you yet!”

Jon flails his legs, his kicks not doing much, “You have yet managed to kill me, demon!”

Because they were locked in such an intense showdown, it surprises him when Elias suddenly stills. It surprises him more when he sees the stake poking out through Elias’s chest, the tip mere centimeters from his own chest. The green fades from his eyes, leaving a dull grey in its absence. Jon’s frozen once again, not from vampiric psychic powers, but from the storm of emotions steamrolling through him.

He remembers James. He trusted James, once. Once upon a time the man welcomed him into the Institute he had grown to love. James is gone. The institute is gone. Jon remains.

The body is unceremoniously kicked off of him, leaving Tim to stand towering above him, breathing heavily. Chunks of flesh fly across the room as he offers Jon a hand, which he of course accepts, firmly grasps, and never wants to let go. On his feet, the chaos of the room settles, leaving bodies scattered across the floor and a heaving werewolf in the corner.

He knows this werewolf, “Martin!” At the sound of his name, Martin immediately bounds over to the pair. Gore covers his chops, “How did you all know where to find me?”

“I don’t know about him, or those... uh.” Tim motions to the feral vampires dead on the floor, “But something called out to me and I just HAD to go to it.”

Then, Jon realizes he finally completed the circle. While a few minutes ago he didn’t fully understand what he was writing, his work from hundreds of years ago, marked with spellbound reading  **SWARM** , thrummed softly in the hall. It’ll run out of juice soon enough. Part of him wished he could’ve completed it back when he was attacked the first time, but he doubts anyone in the institute really could’ve helped him then.

So he turns to Martin, head turned down and eyes staring up at him forlornly. His locket swings around on his neck, the chain straining so hard around the bulk that when Jon touches it, it snaps and drops the locket into his hands.

When he opens it, he sees the picture of young Martin and his mother that he saw before the encounter with the fae. On the other side, which previously was empty, is a picture of Jon curled up with some book. He must’ve taken it while he was too busy to notice. Jon’s throat tightens.

He looks Martin in his eyes, his beautiful brown swallowed up by a predatory yellow, and feels the blood threaten to bubble up in the back of his throat. He has never felt the raw connection in Martin’s eyes before, and yet now he sees snippets of concrete halls swirling under clawed paws and feral flesh being shredded by sharp teeth. He’d be remiss if he let this opportunity go...

“Martin...” he approaches cautiously, “Show me what happened while I was asleep.”

So he sees the shed and the coffin, Martin ever present and keeping him safe, wiping the dust off of his limp body, reading to him tenderly. He sees the tears and heartache, fear that Jon may lie asleep forever. Anger when someone lingers too close to his defensely body. The territoriality is a little surprising, but it fits his nature. He never wanted to leave Jon’s side.

When Jon steps away from the visions, his nose is pouring like a tap turned on. It’s Martin’s blood coming out of him; werewolf blood that he never should’ve drank.

“Again??” Tim steps forward and pinches Jon’s nose shut, “Whatever you’re doing, stop it.”

“Tim.” He pushes Tim’s arm away, the bleeding suddenly stopped. Martin leans in and gives the two of them a generously lick across the cheek.

“Well... we can’t really leave now, it’s almost morning.” Tim scans the room, “And I am absolutely knackered. How about we go find a nook somewhere to sleep until nightfall?”

The trio leave the mess behind.

* * *

What a bloody bust all that was. Here he thought he’d lucked out with a spellcaster body, not having to settle for a werewolf, but then those meddling kids had to go and kill his one-way ticket to physical sensation. What a bummer.

It’s not like Elias was the only option in the world. He’d just find someone else to put his soul in a body. Minor setback. Once he’s out of these damn tunnels, he’ll begin his hunt once again, as he has many times over.

But then he comes upon a toe. It’s odd, a severed toe just sitting in the middle of the hall. Given what he’s seen throughout all the centuries he’s been around, a toe shouldn’t strike him as so odd, even if it is more blue and gnarled than any other toe he’s seen before. So who can judge him when he approaches the thing to get a closer look?

Turns out, it's a bad idea, for as he approaches the toe a circle he couldn’t see on the ground lights up. It’s more intricate than any other circle he’d seen before, all of the lines criss crossing and connecting in so many ways that it was hard to follow just one line. Even the toe was part of it: it gets sucked into the circle, used as fuel. Seems he’s been captured.

As if on cue, a whole gaggle of people round the corner, looking at him expectantly. They seem like a vaguely familiar bunch, but Peter deals with many people way more often than he’d personally like. But then a man makes his way to the head of the group next to a woman with crunches.

He points, “That’s him. That’s the guy that led us to the fae.” The group flares with angry chatter.

Peter gives a conciliatory chuckle, “Now, we all make mistakes, don’t we? Let’s not be hasty...”

“What should we do, Sasha?” The man, he remembers as Danny, asks the woman with crutches.

“Oh Gaia.” She begins, and everyone clasps their hands together, “We thank you so much for your help in the capture of this apparition.”

“We thank you.” The crowd repeats. Sasha’s eyes gaze fiercely upon Peter, vengeful.

“This man is an enemy of your people.” Someone has lit some sage and it’s starting to smoke, “He cannot remain on your earth, even if it is his punishment.”

“Oh come on, did I really do anything wrong?” Sasha’s glare on him doesn’t falter, and he knows that if he could sweat, his hair would be plastered to the back of his neck, “I brought you to an old building, like you like! Not my fault a mean old vampire was there...”

“We ask of you” she approaches the edge of the circle and the rest of the group starts to march around its edge, “that you remove this apparition from this world.”

“No.” Peter tries to leave the circle, but an invisible barrier keeps him inside. Curse this woman, “I won’t die. I refuse to die!”

The circumference slowly shrinks, “You are a danger to all of Gaia’s children. And for that, you perish!”

“No!” He pounds against the invisible barrier ever closing around him. How close he was to being normal again, and now he’s trapped in the one thing that can contain him. It makes him feel small.

The group is shouting “Perish! Perish!” as the barrier closes in. It compresses his body against itself, squeaking like two balloons rubbing each other. It not only presses sideways, but down as well, so the group looms taller and taller over him. Sasha’s gaze never falters, sharp with hatred yet cooled with satisfaction.

He never should’ve messed with a coven.

Once the menace is gone completely, the coven regroups, sparked with the triumph of an evil defeated. Sasha lets them celebrate for a moment; she’d be lying if she denied the huge weight lifted off her back.

But she reigns them back in, “All right everyone, all right. We still have another mission here, remember?” The group all nods, “Let’s go find our boys!”

**Author's Note:**

> Critique encouraged on this piece! This took me too damn long and I'm not entirely satisfied with it, but I hope you at least enjoy a conclusive end!
> 
> I'm @cftcft9090 on tumblr and twitter, but if you find my writing blog, you're special ;)


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